


hustlers, grab your guns

by skoosiepants



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29178744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: Max shoves past him and yells, “Billy!Billy,” and Steve has this… this out of body experience. This total whitehot flash of rage that makes his spine crack and split open, spirit slithering out to stare down at Billy fucking Hargrove stalking across the sand toward them like he didn’t just take off after graduation three years ago, after thatthing--that thing that happened; that gave Steve a hickey on his thigh and a broken nose.or-a road trip leads to the ocean, and old flames.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 24
Kudos: 253





	hustlers, grab your guns

**Author's Note:**

> idk, guys, I'm trying to get my groove back and this is short and flashy. forgive any mistakes, they are my own. there's way too many italics that I'll probably edit out eventually. title is from phantom planet. enjoy!

Steve steps off the worn planks onto the hot sand and thinks, not for the first time, that this was a terrible fucking idea. This was a terrible idea over _thirty hours ago,_ he’d like everyone to know, and now it’s just--stupid. Yeah. 

Steve’s probably the only person in the entire universe who would go on a road trip with both his exes and their little brothers.

Dustin nudges his shoulder. “Great, right? I told you this was going to be great.”

The sun is just setting over the ocean, splitting the sky in half, hazy bright against the water and bruised gray-blue above. A hot breeze is pushing the _smog, sunscreen_ smell past him in unpleasant waves. It’s not that Steve hates the beach, it’s just that he doesn’t understand why they couldn't have celebrated the party’s high school graduation at the quarry, like normal hoosiers. Belligerently drunk, shooting off fireworks. Waking up in the morning to a pool of vomit and a dick drawn on his cheek. You know, _fun stuff_.

Instead, he’s been in Henderson’s mom-mobile, trading drive time, and trying not to notice how Nancy and Jonathon tuck their heads together when they fall asleep. 

And then Max shoves past him and yells, “Billy! _Billy_ ,” and Steve has this… this out of body experience. This total whitehot flash of rage that makes his spine crack and split open, spirit slithering out to stare down at Billy fucking Hargrove stalking across the sand toward them like he didn’t just take off after graduation three years ago, after that _thing--_ that thing that happened; that gave Steve a hickey on his thigh and a broken nose. So. 

What the fuck.

Max, hair a mess in the breeze, tosses herself at a clearly startled Hargrove, who just barely pats her on the back before she’s off him again and three feet away, flushed but surly.

“I said we’d make it,” she says.

“Yeah,” Billy drawls. He eyes her up and down, and then darts his gaze over the party, over Nancy, with a leer for her tossed middle finger and “fuck off,” and then barely flicks a look at Steve before ringing a thick arm around Max’s neck and pulling her close for a noogie. God. He’s such an asshole.

“What the fuck, Dustin?” Steve says in a low hiss, grabbing Dustin’s ear and tugging him closer.

“Ow, ow, _Steve_.” Dustin slaps his hand away, but Steve just elbows him in the gut and shoves him behind a trashcan.

“Really?” Steve says, hushed and totally not panicky _at all_. It’s getting dark enough that the boardwalk lights are on, and Billy looks gold all over and Steve isn’t paying any attention to him as he walks backward toward a fry stand, smirking at Max. “ _Really_?”

“Okay, but,” Dustin holds up his hands, “it’s for Max! C’mon, Steve, she hasn’t seen him all year, her mom thinks we’re going to Disneyland!”

Steve doesn’t say, ‘ _I_ thought we were going to Disneyland,’ but it’s a close thing. Steve’s going to kill him.

“You didn’t have to come,” Dustin says, poking him in the chest. 

Steve makes a face. “I wouldn’t have come if you’d told me we’d be seeing Hargrove.”

Dustin flashes him a smile with too much teeth. “Which is why I didn’t tell you.”

“Dustin, you,” Steve clenches and unclenches his hands. Dustin just grins harder, because he knows Steve’s a fucking pushover. Steve sighs, like he’s dying inside. “Whatever. You fucking owe me a Mickey Bar.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad!” Dustin bounces on the balls of his feet as they move out into the middle of the boardwalk, slowly trailing behind everyone else.

*

The worst part of it all is that Billy ignores him. 

It drives Steve absolutely fucking bonkers and he’s pretty sure that’s exactly why Billy does it. Ugh.

They eat fries and ice cream cones and Jonathan is fiddling with the camera on his phone and Nancy makes snide remarks while Billy tongues the end of a straw, and the kids all jostle for a position around Max, who looks like she’s over the moon. 

Steve shreds a napkin and quietly fumes.

Billy has hair like an angel, sun-bronzed muscles and, like, this fucking mouth that makes Steve think of late nights and bad decisions and being too stoned to care about Billy’s homophobic dad until he’s being pushed out a bedroom window so hard a fucking tree hits his face.

That was, predictably, the last time Steve ever laid eyes on him. Two days later, Hargrove’s Camaro was burning tire marks past the last stop sign in town.

California probably suits him fine. He probably has a lifeguard job, he probably drinks all night and sleeps in and then fucks guys in speedos. Jesus. Steve has to take his deputy exam in three weeks. He runs three miles a day and drinks green smoothies that Peg at the diner swears by and hates everything about himself.

When he’s got a small mountain of paper in front of him, he tunes back into Mike saying, “Steve called my dad. My dad doesn’t even really _give a fuck_ , but now I can’t get that tattoo.”

Steve scoffs. “That tattoo woulda haunted you, Wheeler.” 

Billy has too many teeth when he says, “You’re eighteen now, sport, aren’t you?” How is he still managing to ignore Steve when he’s actually a part of the conversation?

Mike’s frown is bitter. “Not for another three months.”

Hargrove shrugs. “You just gotta get it in a place that won’t matter.”

*

Nearly two hours of Steve’s life is spent trying to convince Mike not to get El’s head tattooed on his ass. It’s worrying. Both because Steve shouldn’t be this invested--he can’t help himself--and because everyone should just instinctively know that getting the face of your significant other on your ass is a bad idea.

But then it’s past midnight and, luckily, everyone just wants to go to bed.

Not so luckily - they crash at Billy’s, because of course they do. It’s a tiny one bedroom over a smoothie shop, and Steve stays awake thinking about all the gross bodily fluids that are probably all over every surface of the place, until he finally gives up the ghost and sneaks into the kitchenette to eat pretzels. The clock on the stove reads 3 AM. Shitty stuff happens at 3 AM. Like getting your face smashed with a tree, hand still sticky with your pal’s spunk.

Steve’s just settled into a good mope when there’s a shuffle-slide of sock feet on linoleum--he looks up to see Hargrove lounging in the doorway. Boxer briefs, sleeveless t-shirt that’s just shy of being cropped. He doesn’t actually look surprised to see him, but there’s a slight widening of his eyes.

“Harrington,” he says. He saunters all the way in, kicks the only other chair out from under the tiny table. Their knees knock when he sits down. 

Steve feels _feral_. “Oh, so you aren’t gonna ignore me anymore?” 

Billy gives him a look, a little scrunch of his nose that’s there and gone again, face falling blank. “Was pretty sure that’s what you’d want, Harrington.” He sprawls back in the chair, legs falling open to bracket one of Steve’s.

Goddamnit. Steve wants to punch Billy in his fucking face. He wants to jerk his leg up and knee him in the junk. But he also figures, _fuck it_ , leans close, curls a hand around the rip of Billy’s collar to tug him up toward him, and swallows his _gratifiyingly startled gasp_ with his mouth.

It sucks, it sucks so hard, but there’s absolutely nothing better than kissing Billy Hargrove. It’s been the fucking bane of Steve’s entire existence for four years, that Hargrove ruined him, let him climb on his lap and, god, suck on his tongue, and then didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye before he blew town.

They’d forged a bond of weed and Steve’s hand down Billy’s extremely tight jeans, and, fuck, Steve hadn’t even gotten off. Too focused on his fingers in Billy’s hair, the way he groaned and gripped at Steve’s waist when he palmed his dick.

So _fuck him_ , Steve thinks, and craddles his face in his hands, fingers slipping behind his ears, thumbs on either side of his jaw to nudge him just so.

“Just so we’re clear,” Steve says, pulling back just as Hargrove clutches at the small of his back, “I’m still fucking pissed at you.” He moves up on Billy anyhow, lets him work a hand into the back of his shorts.

“Oh, really?” Billy says, and bites softly at his earlobe. 

Steve hisses. “ _Yes_.”

“Still?” Billy has a _mouth_ , and Steve has _nerve-endings_ , unfortunately, and the faint press of his smirking lips on Steve’s neck is criminal.

God, Steve’s still got such a fucking problem with hot assholes being shitty to him, and finding that a major turn on.

And then: “What the _fuck_ , Steve!” 

And: “Can’t you do that in a room? With a door?”

And: “I don’t know where that hand is, oh god, I’m fucking blind, what the fuck.”

Billy is unrepentantly licking at Steve’s collarbones. His hand has traveled down to the crease of Steve’s ass, fingers curling under the join of his thigh. Hallelujah for sensible cargo shorts.

Steve slumps forward, tilts his forehead into Hargrove’s shoulder. He says, “It’s late. Why the hell aren’t you asleep, Wheeler?”

Mike squawks even louder nonsense, but he’s already woken up pretty much every other person in the apartment.

Hargrove says, “So we should go to bed.”

Steve wants to say no. He wants to retain what little dignity he has, back off, straighten his clothes, and walk off his boner somewhere without getting mugged; it’s California, Steve figures that happens _everywhere_. But, like, Billy’s still palming his ass, and Steve _did_ start this.

“What’s going on?” Dustin says, pulling a blanket off his head.

Too many faces stare out at him from the darkness of the living room, like goblins. Nancy has her lips pursed. 

“Nothing,” Steve says.

“But--”

He says, “No,” and, “none of you little shits are going to say a word,” as he stands up and adjusts himself.

The tiny apartment has a tiny hall and Steve trails after Billy three steps into the dim darkness before getting cold feet and detouring into the tiny bathroom, because he’s a moron. What the fuck.

Five seconds later, Nancy pushes her way in behind him and hits him on the shoulder.

“Ow.” He rubs at his arm and glares at her.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” she says in a hiss.

“Sure.” Steve has no idea what he’s doing. He came in here to panic text Robin and Nancy’s ruining it.

“You were wrecked, Steve!” she says, poking him hard in the shoulder.

“Oh, way to pay attention, Nance, _thanks_.” Steve was wrecked after the fucking fiasco that was the Nancy and Jonathan show--comparatively, Hargrove was a piece of cake. What he _definitely_ is, though, is a moron.

Robin would tell Steve to fuck Hargrove and run, because she’s a good friend. He’s absolutely terrible at casual, but he can pretend. Besides, when is he ever going to come to California again?

Steve slips past Nancy, stumbles against the wall in the hallway before determinedly turning down toward the bedroom again.

*

“Get lost, princess?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Steve says, and clambers so gracelessly onto the mattress that Hargove _laughs_. Steve stills with his palms on either side of Hargrove’s head. He’s never heard Billy laugh like that before.

Billy’s grin melts into something softer, more alien, and suddenly Steve doesn’t know what to do with him anymore.

“Shit,” he says, softly. _Fuck_. They’re not seventeen. Most of the time, Steve feels like he’s forty and already a dad five times over. He drinks beer with Hopper on Tuesdays and cleans Mrs. Henderson’s gutters every fall. Billy has bright eyes and a softened mouth and a life here that Steve doesn’t know _shit_ about, but, apparently, _lets him fucking laugh_.

Wow. Steve goddamn sucks at casual.

It trips him up for a hot second, staring down at him in the dim light, and then he’s kissing Billy again, and Billy’s laying there and letting him. They kiss until his mouth gets too hot, lips sore, and fingers clenching into the pillows. They kiss until Billy’s hands slide over Steve’s back and he tugs him in with his arms around him, rolling until he’s got Steve tucked up into his side, leg thrown over his legs, like an octopus.

He says, “I’ve got an early shift at the coffee shop,” and nudges his nose into that spot just behind Steve’s ear.

“Yeah? So?”

“So sleep a little,” Hargrove says, a grin in his voice. “I’ll make it worth your while tomorrow.”

Steve’s half hard but so tired, now that he thinks about it, and the stretch and rub against BIlly’s body is _pleasant_ , and he falls asleep on the too-soft bed with sweat already prickling down his spine.

*

Steve rouses slightly when Hargrove rolls over and sits up on the edge of the bed. The window blinds are mostly closed, and any light peeking through is gray. He shoves at his back and says, “Too early,” and Hargrove just says, low, “Go back to sleep, Steve,” and Steve does.

When he wakes up again, it’s to shouts and laughter, and Steve zombie walks into the kitchen to grab coffee before the party gives him a headache.

They spend the day at the beach, and Steve hogs the umbrella and watches Mike and El jump the waves and Max and Will burying Dustin all the way up to his neck, and he dries himself out with too much beer, shades down over his eyes to deal with the persistent headache. He fucking _hates_ California.

What he doesn’t hate, not really, is Hargrove strolling up right around lunchtime with a bag full of sandwiches. It’s so freaking thoughtful, it makes Steve’s head spin.

Dustin plops down next to him and kicks sand all over Steve’s towel. He’s sopping wet and he says, “I saw a _shark_ ,” grinning slightly too manically.

Hargrove drops a wrapped sub into Dustin’s lap and says, “Good for you, Henderson. Move it.”

“Such a gentleman,” Dustin says, and scrambles out of the way with a laugh when Hargrove threatens to kick him.

Sure. _That’s_ normal.

Billy tugs at Steve’s sunhat and glasses, shoves his hands up under Steve’s shirt when he kneels on the towel in front of him. He says, “I know you tan, Harrington, are you an old man now?”

Steve bats his hands away, nerves tingling. “Haven’t you heard of skin cancer, Hargrove?” He used to hope that Hargrove’s aggressive summer sunbathing would make him end up looking like a shriveled raisin. Now he just wants to lecture him about melanoma and smother him in SPF 50. Maybe he _is_ an old man.

“Live a little,” Hargrove says, taking both Steve’s hands and tugging him to his feet. 

“Oh no, come on--” He cuts off with an _oof_ as Billy rolls his shoulder into his stomach and hefts him clear off the ground. “Billy, _don’t_!”

“The water’s warm, Harrington, don’t worry.”

Steve clutches at the slick bare skin around his waist and yelps when Hargrove _slaps his ass_ , and he says, “Dustin saw _sharks_ , asshole, put me down!”

All he can see is Hargrove’s broad back and his blue shorts, flashes of blonde sand and green-gray waves rimmed with white spray. He loses his sunglasses when Billy bends and throws him forward, hitting the water with totally manly shriek.

It’s not cold, Steve will say that for it. He spits water out of his mouth and shoves his hair back with both hands and glares at Billy while he laughs at him.

God-fucking-damn it. It’s like Steve’s kryptonite. Nothing’s ever going to be the same.

*

They’re still on the beach when the light falls; when the air goes from muggy to not quite as muggy, and Steve can almost take a full, deep breath without heavy lungs. His skin itches from salt and sand, and his stomach grumbles, remembering the measly half of a sandwich he’d wrestled away from Mike.

Max is chasing a screaming Lucas by the shoreline. El and Mike are sitting in the shallow water, holding hands. Nancy and Jonathan are _gone_ , thank god, doing fuck-all on the boardwalk. Dustin’s a shadow, far along the rocky jetty.

“I remember promises, Hargrove,” Steve says, leaning back, sinking his hand in the sand behind Billy.

Billy’s got his knees up, leaning forward, rolling a water bottle between his hands.

“What, beautiful sunsets don’t do it for you, princess?” His tongue is in his cheek, smile wide, but there are no mean edges to his eyes when he glances over at him.

Steve’s an idiot. There’s no way anything good can come from any of this. But he’s got two more days before they have to start their trek home, and technically Steve doesn’t have to be back in Indiana for another couple of weeks. There’s plenty of bad decisions to be made--he’s pretty sure that’s exactly what his twenties are for. 

He doesn’t say anything about it, though. He flips Billy off, and then pushes him over when Billy just laughs.

He twists a hand in the bottom of Steve’s shirt, another at his collar, says, “Only you’d wear a fucking polo to the beach, Harrington,” but he sounds _fond_.

It’s fucking romantic. The pink and purple bruised sky. The last glimmer of sun rays setting the ocean on fire. Hargrove’s grin, and his messy curls and even the stupid fucking tiny mustache that somehow doesn’t make him look like a tool.

Steve doesn’t kiss him, but only because Dustin’s breathing down his neck, and Mike’s shouting about tacos and Lucas and Max are already making out, which is _always_ gross.

Hargrove winks at him, tips his head back into the sand, and yells, “Pizza!”

*

The fire escape off Hargrove’s kitchenette is roughly three foot by three foot wide and makes a disturbing groaning sound when Steve crawls out of the window to lean against the metal railing next to Billy.

“So what’s your plan?” Hargrove says, taking a drag off his cigarette. 

Steve cocks his head. “Huh?”

“You’re gonna be an empty nester soon. What’s next, Harrington?” He turns, back against the railing, elbows propped up. “Cop, wife, two point five kids. A husky?” He’s frowning, yellow light from the kitchen hitting across his mouth, bars of the window leaving his eyes shadowed. There’s no goddamn moon, or if there is, they can’t see it above the city lights.

“Do you…” Steve squints, “do you really wanna talk about that right now?” 

Hargrove flicks his smoke off the railing, and Steve absently watches it float down to the oil slicked alley below, end still cherry red.

“No,” Billy says, and then Steve’s suddenly conscious of how small the fire escape is, and how their hips are so torturously close it’s almost worse than actually touching, and Billy licks the corner of his mouth and smirks at him.

He’s gonna taste like _ass_ , like _cat shit_ , probably, and it’s a fucking nightmare that Steve’s been conditioned since he was, like, sixteen to _love it._

He’s been hung up on Billy Hargrove since he skidded his camaro into Hawkins, rolling with iron fists and a criminal temper; a chip on his shoulder that he’d _frequently_ dump right at Steve’s door.

The difference here is that Billy’s whole stance is loose. Steve should be used to it after today, but it’s still weird as fuck.

“C’mere,” Billy says.

“You’re the fucking _worst_ ,” Steve says, but he moves in anyway.

*

Everyone’s asleep all over the floor of the apartment except for Jonathan and Nancy, who are probably fucking in the van. Steve would be more weirded out about that if he hadn’t already had all that multiple times over the years. Billy would probably flip if he told him about that, so he’s gonna save it for when he really wants to piss him off.

Not now, though. Now, he lets Billy tug him down the hallway. His room is just as cramped as the rest of the place. It’s hot, even with the ac on, and his sheets smell like sweat and cologne, smoke and Billy--Steve pushes him down and climbs on top of him and shoves his shirt up as Billy laughs and slides warm hands over Steve’s back. 

He says, “Slow down, princess,” and Steve bites his nipple and says, “You’ve never been slow about anything in your entire fucking life.”

Fingers dig into the line of his spine, then sweep up under Steve’s shirt to wrap around his nape. “True,” Billy says, and then he coaxes Steve down into a kiss.

Steve wants to be _naked_ , he wants Billy’s pants off and he wants Billy’s large, calloused hands on his dick, but he also loves Billy’s mouth, his tongue, and he can’t help slowing down anyhow, melting into the way Billy groans.

This isn’t supposed to be sweet, goddamn it. 

Steve settles between his hips, Billy brings his knees up, and they’re still frustratingly half dressed and Billy says, “Slow down,” again into his mouth.

*

Steve wakes up way too early again, with a hot, sticky weight draped over his back, and aches in odd places. Stubble scratches along a shoulder blade, lips catching at the top of his spine, making him shudder.

“Time’s it?” he slurs, yawning into the pillow.

Billy doesn’t say. He grunts, and tightens his hold on Steve, and what woke him up finally drifts into his consciousness--noisy kids, the thump of furniture moving, the smell of bacon and coffee.

“What are they all even doing up?” Steve shifts, palms into the mattress to push himself up.

Billy goes limp behind him, flat, so Steve has to wriggle sideways to get out, only that doesn’t work either, because Billy has tentacle arms and a tight grip.

“Do you mind?” Steve says.

Billy’s, “No,” is muffled by Steve’s skin, but he doesn’t move.

“Hargrove?” Not that Steve really cares; he’s warm, he’s sleepy. But there’s a good chance that Mike’s gonna make pancakes.

Billy rolls onto his side and takes Steve with him, throwing a heavy thigh over his legs.

“What--hey--” Steve flails around until he’s flat on his back, staring at the curve of Billy’s cheek, the pale fan of his eyelashes, head resting against Steve’s shoulder.

Billy’s voice is rough on, “Stay.”

There’s a clatter-crash in the other room. Max is yelling. Steve smells smoke, and any second now there’s probably going to be an alarm. He _thinks_ the bedroom door is locked, but he’s not one hundred percent sure, and he doesn’t really care.

Billy’s thumb sweeps back and forth along Steve’s side, and Steve catches his wrist, stills the motion before he can slip any further down. He probably means stay _now_. He means today, in bed. He means until the party gets packed up, until they’re ready to pull out--head back to reality, to the road that leads them all the way back to Hawkins. Before the kids all scatter to the four winds, every different direction you could possibly go for college and life after.

Two weeks, before Hopper really starts to hound him about getting ready for the exam. His mom would probably even pay for the plane ticket. He could do it, if that’s what Hargrove’s asking. 

Now, though, all he knows for sure is that Hargrove’s breathing has evened out again, arm still across Steve’s middle, sheet tangled up in both their legs.

Steve thinks _this is a bad fucking idea_ , and he also thinks it doesn’t matter. The sun is weak and graycast, streaming in between Billy’s closed blinds. Dust motes float in the bars that fall across the bed, the cut of Billy’s hip, still gold, skin smooth.

Billy snores soft, like an _angel_.

Goddamn it. He’ll stay.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes I write things on [tumblr](http://pantstomatch.tumblr.com).


End file.
